


Time and Relativity

by Wreath_of_Laurels



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Author's Favorite, Families of Choice, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Possible historical inaccuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreath_of_Laurels/pseuds/Wreath_of_Laurels
Summary: Immortals and family over the ages.Ch 1. The last days of the Four Horsemen.Ch 2. Marcus Constantine does not know how to be anything but Roman.Ch 3. Tessa and Richie bond over art.





	1. Methos and the Horsemen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/gifts).



> A late Christmas present for Morgyn Leri for the Highlander Shortcut Gift Exchange and editted by the lovely Sylvan.
> 
> I decided to go with her request of found family. Originally, this was supposed to be one story with a number of her requested characters, but as my muse is a complete and utter bastard, she refused to cooperate and then school got in the way. So it instead morphed into three separate stories.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last days of the Four Horsemen.

**Egypt, 153 B.C.**

The camp was quieting as slave, soldier, and animal alike bedded down for the night. Only the Horsemen defied the night. Three sat there; Silas, Kronos and Caspian. They would have surrounded the fire but for the fourth seat sitting empty. It left a pall over the evening. They were meant be an even number, perfectly balanced. Four like the seasons. Like the four winds. Forces of nature unto themselves.

And as if in answer to the thought, Kronos felt the Song of his fourth brother’s soul harmonize with their own.

“Greetings, brother,” he said, and smiled.

“So quick to assume family instead of foe? I might have been a stranger come to make a goblet from your skull,” Methos said as he approached, leading his pale mount and a new dappled grey mare forward.

“Like anyone would be stupid enough to approach the camp of the Horsemen,” Caspian grumbled.

Methos cocked an eyebrow at him. “I seem to recall a small incident with a certain woman last time we were here.” Nearly two hundred years prior, the pharaoh’s pet Immortal had caused them a fair bit of trouble.

“The bitch used mortals,” Caspian grumbled. An army of them armed with sharp blades and vivid tales of demons.

“Yes, she did. It was well done,” Methos said lightly. “I seem to recall you shouted yourself hoarse demanding that she come out and fight you.”

“She was a coward. She wouldn’t come,” Caspian growled at Methos.

“There was also over a hundred score of soldiers between you. If she had heard you, I would admire her ears more than her sense.” 

Before Caspian could retort, Silas spoke up. “Methos, what is this?” he said in hushed tones as his eyes alighted on the mare next Methos’ mount.

Kronos, who had been preparing to stop the argument before it worsened, relaxed. Like water from a punctured gourd, the venom drained from Methos’ voice when confronted with their youngest brother. “I brought gifts,” Methos said simply, untying the saddle bags from his horse. None could bring out the gentle and sincere side of Methos’ nature as easily as Silas, and Kronos had come to rely on this.

“And the mare?” Silas said eagerly. “Is she—”

“—for you, of course.”

Silas gently ran his hands over the beast, barely skimming its flesh as if the mare was a holy object. “Solid legs, strong back, and her coat… It’s as if she wears the moon itself on her back. Thank you, brother! Thank you!”

Silas crushed him to his breast. “Silas, please,” Methos said, his voice coming out a shrivelled and nasally sound.

Instantly, Silas dropped Methos. “Sorry, it’s just the gift is so great and…" He trailed off as a notion occurred to him. "The ride here was long, she’ll need tending and your mount too. I’ll take them both. They will be well cared for.” And with that, he plucked the reins from Methos’ hands and headed towards the horse pens.

Methos swayed slightly, putting one hand on Kronos’ shoulder for balance and taking in great gulps of air.

“You should be careful giving gifts to Silas,” Caspian said, hooting. “One day, your head might pop off.”

“It would be a unique way to go if nothing else,” Methos said. “Does this mean you do not want your gift, Caspian? Or perhaps you’re worried that you’ll kiss me so hard, your lips will fall off!”

The Horseman grumbled but said nothing to the contrary and Methos withdrew a bulky package. Caspian unwrapped it slowly as if half expecting it to grow teeth and bite him. Instead, nestled in the folds of a good oil cloth was a carved wooden instrument. The top part resembled a harp, with a metal peg holding the stings between two large wooden prongs, while the bottom was wide and likely hollow like a lute.

“A harp?” Caspian asked, curiosity pushing aside scorn. He fancied himself an artist, his favourite medium being the carving of flesh; a talent Kronos much appreciated, but Caspian would also indulge in the more mundane arts.

“A kithara.1 The seller claimed that it came all the way from Rome.”

“So far,” Caspian commented, experimentally plucking at the strings and listening with cocked head, like a hound searching for prey. He plucked the strings a few more times and then muttered about it being out of tune and carried it to his seat to fix it.

“You realise,” Kronos said to Methos, “that there will be no living with them for the next while. Silas will speak of nothing but that horse...”

“And here I thought us horsemen.”

“…and Caspian will not say a word that is not in song.”

“So, an improvement then.”

Kronos sighed. Was he the only one of his kin to keep the peace? He settled for ignoring the comment. “We must keep trim. Caspian already has three wagons of art and music implements, and Silas has a veritable herd of horseflesh. Much more and when we next move camp, we will be outpaced by tortoises.”

“And I thought I was the strategist.”

Kronos kicked his brother in the shin hard enough to make him grunt. He usually loved Methos’ wit but there were times where he would have sacrificed his tongue for a straight answer or, barring that, silence.

Methos seemed to sense this and the twisted sparkle in his eyes softened to a subdued shine. “I thought we might blend in for a time.”

“And where would we go?”

“Alexandria.”

“That spot of land?” The last time he had been there, Kronos had thought it a pompous name for a village.                   

“It has become a great city the likes of which you’ve never seen. People from across the world come to sup at its feet. There would be art enough for Caspian, and the mare I brought Silas is a small sample of their horseflesh.”

“Ah.” Kronos thrust a branch into fire. Slender and fragile when compared to good aged wood, it was in the fire for barely a minute before it was utterly consumed. “Caspian,” he said. “Perhaps you should practice in your tent. Your lanterns make better light.”

Caspian leapt to his feet, a protest on his lips, but then he met Kronos’ eyes and it died in its infancy. His gaze flickered to Methos then back to Kronos.

“I would not want you to strain your eyes, brother,” Kronos continued, smiling sweetly.

Caspian made a snort of derision and stormed off.

“’Strain your eyes’?” Methos asked. “We’ll make a mother of you yet.”

Normally, Kronos would have laughed at the comment. Perhaps made a comment on how that made Methos the father of their little band, the sort that drove children and wife alike to madness, but not this time. Instead, he cast the same gaze he’d used on Caspian onto Methos.

“And myself? What tasks would you have me waste my hours on?”

With that, Methos once more opened his saddlebag and pulled out a wooden box. It was of simple make and opened into a board painted with twelve thin triangles in black and brown. Off to on one side were checkers in the same colours and a die.

“Takhte Nard?”2 Kronos said, raising an eyebrow. He and Methos had played many a time.

“They call it something different in Alexandria. They play it differently too.”

Such was the nature of mortals. As steadfast as a bulrush in a whirlwind. “You’ve tired of me beating you, so you want to change the rules?”

Methos spent too much time looking at everything other than the board. “Something like that.”

It said something of the nature of their relationship, Kronos mused. Methos was forever trying something new. It seemed that no sooner had he tried his latest fancy, than he would abandon it for another, like a spoiled child dropping one toy to grasp another with Kronos scampering afterwards to pick up his leftovers. It was not all bad, he supposed. He doubted Caspian would be with them if Methos had not spotted him first, and when Methos had grown bored with him, Kronos had not stepped in to bind him fully to them.

“You would have me while away my days with games?” he said and idly plucked the die from the set, sealing his hand around it. It had been poorly made, the bone it had been shaped, but not been properly sanded and the sharp edges dug into the flesh of his palm. Kronos tightened his grasp further, until it bit deep and he could feel the tell-tale crackle of his power in his palm.

“Think of it as a metaphor.”

“For what?”

“Challenges.”

“Oh?”

“Trade. Crime. Politics. War of the mind. Alexandria is awash with a thousand, a million victories to be had. Immortals also. These days they flock to the great cities of the world. You might have a Challenge as often as thrice a decade.” That was many indeed. In all his centuries, Kronos had only had a few dozen Challenges. Most Immortals fled at the merest rumour of the Horsemen.

“And the slaves? They might speak of things best left unsaid.”

Methos shrugged carelessly.  “Kill them. We have coin enough to buy new ones. Maybe remove the tongues of the useful ones.”

Honeyed words his brother wielded. Nonetheless, these tiny ‘wars’ were as much games as Takhte Nard, fun diversions from reality. He supposed he could use the time to study the army. Learn of the new war technologies and strategies. Mortals could be intriguingly inventive there, but...

“And I imagine you’d be found in the library,” Kronos commented lightly.

“Perhaps.” If Methos spotted the contradiction to Kronos’ earlier proclaimed ignorance of Alexandria, he gave no sign.

He had kept a journal off and on over the years, and Kronos found it a charming oddity like Silas’ fondness for animals or Caspian’s collection of skulls. For his part, he had never thought much on the written word. He had good senses, a sharp mind, and life unending. Why record it on heavy stone or flimsy papyrus when the ancient world lived on with him, flowing through him with every beat of his heart?

But as of late, Methos’ fondness for the written word was turning concerning. His growing collection of scrolls and tablets vastly outmatched Caspian’s collections, and he would sometimes give copies to the mortals that they traded with. Strange, yes, but not concerning. What was concerning was his tendency to spend longer and longer periods of time in cities and his attempts to get his brothers to join him.

Such places were too full. Too much food. Too many people. Too many pleasures. All in all, too many things to distract the eye and mind from the danger therein. Kronos had once seen a lion kept as pet to a merchant. It had been well cared for, coat brushed to a luxurious shine, and fed so much that its belly almost brushed the ground as it walked. When they had taken the merchant’s land and house, Kronos had put him in the lion’s cage, expecting him to be devoured. The beast had done no such thing, instead curling up with his master. The lion had forgotten how to be a lion.

Such a danger was a city to one as curious as Methos. He would walk right in and shut the cage door behind him.

“It is time for a change,” Kronos said. “We’ve been riding across the land for too long. Perhaps it is time to take the water instead.”

“But Caspian and Silas…”

“Caspian would be delighted.” He had always preferred riding on Poseidon's back more than any horse. “Besides, it’s easier to transport instruments of art in a ship’s hold than in a cart. As for Silas, we will need a place to maintain our vessel and keep our horde. He can grow his herd there.

“And do not mourn your library. If we raid merchant vessels, you’ll get many an educated man to ply with questions.”

Methos said nothing to this and, tight-lipped, bowed his head.

Kronos rose and slapped him hard on the back. “Too much talk. The ride was long. You must be tired and hungry. Silas has been saving food for you. He did not want you to miss a single meal with us. From each one, he has saved a mouthful and used it all to make a grand stew for you.”

“That was over a moon ago. It’s likely only good for the rats.”

“Shall I tell him so?” Kronos said, grinning, white teeth turning ghoulish orange in the firelight.

Methos rolled his eyes and did not dignify him with an answer. He never had the stomach to disappoint their youngest brother, even if it meant said stomach would be poisoned. This was a return to more normal banter and Kronos dared not spoil the moment with summoning slaves, and instead retrieved the stew from Silas’ tent himself.

“The pot is large and will take time to heat. For now, rest your head, my brother. I will wake you when it is ready,” he said, banking the pot among the glowing charcoals along the fire’s edge.

“And will that be when the stew is hopelessly charred?”

“Only if there’s an unfortunate accident. Perhaps I have become too used to the slaves doing the cooking.”

Methos snorted but settled down, pillowing his head on Kronos’ thigh. “And Silas?”

The sea would be good for him. Methos had little experience with ocean warfare. It would be a new challenge, something to stir his blood once more.

“Better he be angry at me for ruining his present than guilty for poisoning you,” Kronos said and pressed a kiss to Methos’ forehead. “Sometimes we must be cruel to be kind."

* * *

 

1 Kithara. A wooden instrument that resembles both a lute and a harp. Origin of the word guitar.

2 Takhte Nard. A predecessor to modern backgammon. It’s theorised to be as old as or older than 5,000 years.


	2. Ceirdwyn and Marcus Constantine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus Constantine does not know how to be anything but Roman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters mentioned in this episode are fairly minor. So here's a basic primer for those who are interested: 
> 
> Marcus Constantine is a character who shows up in only one episode of Highlander "Pharaoh's Daughter". When Constantine was a Roman general, he and another Immortal Nefirtiri, a handmaid to Cleopatra, were lovers. This went South due to the war between Rome and Egypt. Also Constantine thought that proposing marriage to a woman who was trying to chop off his head was a good idea. 
> 
> The character of Ceirdwyn was also a one-shot character who appears in "Take Back the Night". She had her first death fighting the Romans in Boudica's army in ancient Britain.

**Scotland, 60 A.D.**

When Marcus Constantine’s Teacher had told him that Immortals had no parents, he had scoffed. What their parents were had always seemed obvious to him. They were demi-gods, were they not? Like Achilles and his heel, they only had one weakness. The lightning in their veins could be of Jupiter, their healing of Apollo, or their first return from the grave could be a blessing of dark Pluto himself.

As for which god was his sire or dam, he might never know, but in all things that mattered, Rome was both mother and father to him and that had been enough.

* * *

 

Egypt is nothing like Caledonia.1 The former had never had this lushness of foliage. Egypt’s plants had fiercely clung to any water source they could find whereas Caledonia was an avalanche of green. Both are so utterly unlike Rome that he finds himself stroking the hilt of his sword for reassurance.

“I thought you revel in the challenge,  _General,_ ” Albus Gaius Paulinus says, derision colouring the last word. “Given your ancestor, I would think you would wish to be worthy of his name.”

Yes, Marcus Constantine’s famous 'ancestor’. These days it seems like that connection is a weight around his neck. One of the great generals, who had helped Augustus capture Caesarion.2 The Senate’s crier had droned on about that for months. He had ended up jumping in a river to avoid being paraded around as a hero. Marcus Constantine’s 'great' coup, conning a scared, desperate youth into trusting him.  Caesarion, who had played at his feet as a child. Who had still remembered him as the lover of his mother’s trusted advisor.

Perhaps it is not Caledonia that grates on him at all, but Paulinus. The man had dragged both him and his bodyguards away from camp and up a small mountain so he could pontificate. The poor men had been due to change shift and look badly in need of their bedrolls, but at least Paulinus looks worse. No doubt he thinks he cuts a grand figure, speaking of warfare on the cusp of a cliff with the land spread out below. Marcus would think the man belonged in the theatre except he suspects they would reject him.3

In truth, he’s red-faced, his robes splattered with mud, and Caledonia has obliged to add to the absurdity by covering the landscape in a thick fog.

“All this land to conquer. All these people we could bring into Rome’s glorious light and you would merely turn tale and go hide in Britannia?"Paulinus demands.

Hide? In Britannia? To hide in Britannia was to hide from a fire in a cook pot. Had the man not read a single letter from his uncle? The relation to Suetonius 4 is the only reason Paulinus is here ordering the men around like he is a general himself.

The fact that he can use familial connections in this way irritates Constantine. Caesar and Senate both spoke of the Republic, but in truth these days Rome seems more like an empire of a thousand kings with everyone pretending not to see the crowns.

“I am merely here to assess the situation and then return to Rome for my retirement.”

“Retirement? You look nowhere near old enough fo—” Before Paulinus can say anything almost intelligent, Constantine feels the telltale Whisper of another Immortal in his ear and instinctively grabs the man and shoves him at the guards. They had been watching the woods for attackers, not the cliff itself.

No sooner does he do so, than a woman springs up the edge of the cliff. Screaming, with sword drawn, she charges at him. No, not at him... At Paulinus. She is no doubt looking for the easier target and though Constantine does not like the man, he is still his responsibility; so, he twists around her charge and lands a hard kick to the side of her knee, shattering it and using the opportunity to draw his own blade.

“Get him to camp,” he orders the guards. This is not a fight for children.

They protest, but channeling over two hundred years of command experience into a hissed “Go!" he sends them fleeing the scene.

Her gaze dances all over the place, across the running Paulinus and the guards, the scenery and Marcus himself. He could have taken her head then and there, but instead he studies her. The woman’s face is thickly marked in Iceni5 war paint. What is one of them doing this far from Britannia? Some new alliance or simply an assassin?

She gabbles something that sounds like a prayer as her knee heals, and she rises once more to her feet with blade ready, but she freezes and stares at his side. She must have sliced him because he can feel the wetness there and the crackle of lightning on his skin as he too heals.

She does not know, he realises. He must be the first one of their kind that she has met. No wonder her gaze had been so jittery. The Whispering could be terrifying when one did not know its source. The sensation that someone was watching you and not knowing who. Even worse when you know not what you’re feeling in the first place.

He releases his left hand from his sword and touches his side with it and then points to her knee. He beckons her, hoping she’ll come with him. She seems to consider it too, but her eyes trace the lines of his Roman legion armour and she snarls and spits on the ground between them, before running into the forest.

His armour is a work of art. Fresh plumes in his helmet. The breastplate polished to a mirror shine. All perfectly fitted to his body. Nonetheless, he has never felt so hideous.

* * *

 

“Again,” he orders, eyeing his drink. It sits innocently enough on the table of his tent, but he swears the brew is mocking him. It’s a local brew and not like the simple honest ale he’s preferred for centuries. It’s sickeningly sweet.

“Yes, general,” the youth says and repeats the phrase for the twelfth time that morning.

With his proper clerk clothing, one could forget the boy is not of Roman blood, until he opens his mouth and the strange cadence of the Iceni pours out. A language just as alien to Marcus Constantine as the drink. Dutifully, he takes a large sip of the vile liquid and echoes the words.

Or at least tries to. For all that the boy is stoic, Constantine can see the telltale twitch as one word gets mangled and can practically hear his Teacher’s laughter. Flavius Sulla had always despaired of his stubborn lack of interest in any language other than Greek and Latin, the only proper languages in young Constantine’s opinion.  _You are too Roman,_ Flavius had complained. To which he’d retorted:  _What else would I be?_

They repeat the phrase back and forth another fifty times, and finally he’s fairly sure that the boy is no longer humouring his general. Then they move on to other language lessons and end for the day. He even manages to finish the tongue curdling potion. He’s heard tales of a great Greek orator who used stones to force himself to pronounce every word clearly, so perhaps it has some use.

As the boy goes to leave, Constantine notes the brief hesitance in his step, the tentative flicker of curiosity about the eyes.

“Out with it,” he says.

“Sir?”

“A question has been plaguing you,” he snaps. “I would hear it.” He normally wouldn’t bother letting a mere boy question him, but perhaps the siren song of fatherhood has ensnared him. He had once dreamed of him and Nefertiri adopting children. Or perhaps it’s because he feels a trace of kinship with this mortal boy.

In a gentler voice, he continues: “Careful curiosity is a good thing provided you are willing to learn. Speak.” Yes, it is for the best that Flavius is far away. Hopefully in the far east, otherwise he would never hear the end of it.

The boy draws himself so tall that it seems as if he were in the cavalry, astride his horse’s back and about to charge into enemy ranks. “Sir, I was wondering why that phrase?”

“Yes?”

“There are a thousand things I know. Why is that phrase so important?”

“Because it’s one that people never use enough.”

The boy frowns but bows his head. Clearly, he does not understand. Not consciously, but unconsciously? Unconsciously, he knows it to his bones. He’s lived it from the moment he came to the camp, clever thing that he is. Always watching, aping the clerks and soldiers both. Constantly trying to improve his Latin or refine his mannerisms.

To survive, he is learning to become Roman. Meanwhile, Constantine does not know how to be anything else.

* * *

 

He leaves less than a month later for his 'retirement' and much to the bewilderment of the garrison he takes no guards.  

He doubts Paulinus will mourn. No doubt he will use his ‘tragic death’ to push for an invasion. Constantine doubts that it will come anytime soon. Britannia is far from secure and never mind the other fronts that need troops and supplies.

If he had any doubts about her nature, her path puts it to rest. She is a woodland creature. The path twists and turns, often taking to water and up into the trees. Only one who intimately knows both predator and prey could lead him on a chase like this. It is only after the night has fallen and the moon risen high that he finds her.

Nefertiri had claimed that she was a daughter of the Egyptian goddess Isis. Constantine had scoffed at this and told her she would be better off as a disciple of Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom and Warfare. He had disregarded foreign gods, thinking them nothing more than children’s toys made from cold stone and dead wood at worst or lesser deities at best.

So, when he first looks upon her—her skin painted moonlight silver by the reflection of a pond—his first thought is that he has spied Diana herself. But, no, he is older now and if not wiser, then more able to admit his ignorance.

She fits here too well to be a goddess of Rome. Her hair is the colour of the tree bark. Her eyes the colour of the streams. Even the way she walks, each step silent despite the brush beneath. She is a true child of this land. He envies her this. For all that she is not of Caledonia, Caledonia has embraced her, gently encompassing her body whereas Rome now digs into his skin, its grip having grown too tight.

Only when he approaches does her perfection falter. She has heard the Whisper and her eyes search the woods, seeking something for which she does not have a name.

It would be easy, he thinks, to leave. She knows the sword. She knows survival. Only a few hours to explain the Game and he could be on his way. Instead he clings to that link of kinship between them and hopes it will be enough.

He kneels before her, head bowed in supplication, and speaks the entreaty that he has burned into his tongue.

“Please,” he says, “teach me.” 

1 Caledonia. A Roman name for Scotland.

2 Caesarion. Nickname of Ptolemy XV Philopator Philometor Caesar. Pharaoh of Egypt and son of Cleopatra and Julius Caesar. Killed due to being a rival to Augustus Caesar (aka. Octavian).

3 Roman opinion of actors was very low. Often, they were thought of as being on the same level as criminals and prostitutes.

4 Gaius Suetonius Paulinus. A Roman general and governor of Britannia (Britain).

5 Iceni.  A tribe in Britannia, known for fighting against the Romans under the leadership of Boudica.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Watcher Chronicles list Marcus and Ceirdwyn as Teacher and Student respectively. Apparently they later became lovers as well. This seemed troublesome to be given that the Romans killed a number of her tribesmen and gave her her first death. So I wanted to challenged myself to see if I could make it plausible.


	3. Tessa and Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tessa and Richie bond over art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maria Alcobar is actually a canon character who showed up in the season four episode of "Chivalry" as Richie's former foster sister. Part of the backstory herein with Richie and the Alcobars is taken from LadySilver's excellent "Impersonation" from the series "Something Like Forever".

** Seacouver , Washington, 1992 **

It was an hour past noon when Richie all but charged into Tessa’s studio. It came as no surprise to her. For the last hour, she had pretended not to notice the squeak of his shoes on the hardwood as he had paced up and down the corridor outside. She’d found that a very Richie thing to do. He often acted that way when he knew he needed to do something but didn’t want to. Delay, then delay some more before finally heading in full tilt.

“Hey Tess,” Richie said, his voice a trifle too fast. “I wanted to see how your—” He looked around frantically until he spotted the limestone  block she had been working on. “—thing is going. Oh, and you’ve missed lunch. Can’t miss that. Most important meal of the day.”

Tessa had thought that was supposed to be breakfast. Even after all these years, there were still little Americanisms she missed. She supposed she still did better than Duncan. While he understood the local language and references just fine, he would occasionally say something that belonged centuries in the past. Anyway, it had little to do with the matter at hand. “Thank you, Richie. Sometimes I get too caught up in my work.”

“I’m sure,” he said, squinting at the statue. Carving could be a slow, dull work, especially for an impatient teenage boy. Perhaps she should invite him in when she was working with metal, and if that did not intrigue him that would be fine. Not all art spoke to all people. Duncan had dragged her to more than one art movie, insisting that it was a way to self-improvement, whereas Tessa would have much rather seen the latest James Bond.

If she had suspected, something was up before, her suspicions grew when they arrived in the kitchen. While Richie tended towards stubbornness when it came to accepting gifts, he had never had such compunctions regarding food. Normally at mealtimes, Richie resembled more a vacuum cleaner than a human being. This time though he had nothing more than an apple and then the end of a bread loaf with a miserably thin piece of cheese gracing its surface.

“Richie, are you okay?” she prompted lightly.

“I’m fine,” he said a hair too quickly. “I’m not sick.”

“ Richie… .”

“Okay, okay. You remember my social worker, Anderson?”

“We had to arrange things with him before he allowed you move in.”

“Yeah, ‘allow’.” Richie snorted. “Well, he showed up at the shop last week.” Not surprising given Richie had been dodging calls from him all month. “Apparently my foster parents want to see me.”

“The  Hansons?” If it was them, she hoped that they were calling to beg forgiveness. The ‘lovely’ couple who hadn’t reported Richie running away from their home.

“Nah, the  Alcobars . They were from ages ago. They’re moving soon and found some old things of mine in storage. If I don’t want them tossed, I  gotta grab’em .”

“Yes and?”

“It’s outside the city, halfway between here and Port Tacoma, so I was hoping I could borrow your car.”

“Okay, just one thing.”

“Sure, anything?”

“Do you have your driver’s licence?”

Richie had been nervously juggling his apple between his hands and at the comment, it fell neatly into his water glass.  “I’ve been driving for years,” he protested.

“I would love to see the photo then.” So, no then. She had thought so. She might have had her licence younger than Richie, but she suspected it was not so easy for a boy who had spent much of the last few years on the streets.

“Nah, you don’t want to see that. I was a skinny thing then, all gawky, nothing but elbows and knees. And my skin? Blackheads and pimples everywhere. It was not a pretty sight.”

“I bet you looked adorable.”

Seeing no escape, the teen made a big show of looking through his wallet. “Darn, guess I must have lost it. I guess I’ll have to take the bus.”

“I’ll take you,” she said.

“Seriously, I’ll be there and back in a jiffy.”

“It’s an hour by car.”

“I’ll bring a book.”

“Both ways.”

“A really long one.”

“It’s supposed to snow this afternoon.”

“A sweater too.”

She raised her eyebrows in challenge.

“I’ll be fine, Tessa. Seriously.”

She raised them higher. 

* * *

Half an hour later, Tessa pulled onto the highway towards the  Seacouver outskirts, a thoroughly subdued Richie in the seat next to her.

She hadn’t like to push him as much as she had, but it had seemed necessary. He’d come very close to being put in jail when Duncan had met him, and she was not going to have him arrested for driving without a license. As for the weather, Richie refused to let her buy clothes for him and of the ones he did own, she was positive neither sweater nor winter coat was among them.

“Richie,” she said, extending the olive branch, “there’re tapes in the glovebox. You can pick the music.”

Richie riffled through, finally settling on a  _Best of Queen_   tape, and popped it into the car’s player.

Instead of the haunting rich tones of Freddie Mercury, an explosion went off in the car.

“Ack!” Richie yelled and clamped his hands over his ears as strings, horns and every other instrument in the orchestra all competed to see who could be the loudest.

It took everything she had not to do the same. With one hand holding the car steady, she used the other to stab wildly at the player’s buttons. To her horror, the music got even louder, a chorus having joined in who were determinedly trying to drown out their colleagues before she finally hit the stop button.

“What was that?” Richie said, rubbing at his ears.

“Duncan,” she growled and swore a blue streak.

After the third minute of (inaccurate) commentary about Duncan’s intelligence, bedroom prowess, and strength. Tessa remembered her audience and cut herself off. It had all been in French, but it was best not to push it. While Richie claimed he didn’t want to swear around a ‘lady’, he slipped enough to demonstrate a colourful knowledge of English, Spanish, and surprisingly Russian. She had no intention of adding French to his repertoire.

“So, what was that all about?” Richie asked.

“Duncan wants me to go with him to the opera next month. He thinks if I listen to enough, I’ll start liking it.”

Richie popped the tape out. “Huh,  _Wagner’s Ring Cycle_ ,” he read, then started examining the other ones, ignoring the cases to look at the tapes themselves. “Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Puccini, Rossini… Looks like he’s screwed with your entire collection. Want me to toss'em out the window?”

She was sorely tempted but resisted the impulse. “No, thank you.” Better to hold them hostage until her own were returned.

“Not even the Wagner?”

Very tempted. “…No.” That would be littering.

“I’m kind of surprised. I figured you’d like that stuff.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s high-end art stuff. And that’s your thing.”

“I don’t like every type of art. You don't like all my sculptures but you like Duncan's car."

“All your sculptures are great!" he lied, then processing the rest of the comment, added: "Wait, the Thunderbird? It's art?”

“It’s a sculpture that moves.” She imagined the fact that it was a ‘chick magnet’ didn’t hurt either. Last month, she and Duncan had picked up groceries only to return to find Richie sitting proudly in the driver’s seat, chatting up a flock of young ladies.

“Huh, so you don’t like opera.”

“Some are tolerable… Others not so much.”

“Jazz?”

“Yes. Blues especially. You?”

“Never really listened to much.”

“There’re a few good bands that regularly play around town. I could take you.”

“I’ll think about it. How about Rock?”

“I have Queen tapes.”

“Okay, okay. Point taken.”

They continued like that for a while and Tessa was pleasantly surprised that their tastes in music were quite similar. When he embarrassedly admitted to enjoying some Baroque music, an Achilles heel of Duncan, they began to plan their revenge.

“He’s always saying I need culture,” Richie suggested. “I’ll play the stuff all the time and he won’t be able to say a thing.”

“Make it 16th century English Baroque and I’ll buy you speakers.” It would also have the bonus of getting Richie to let her buy something for him.

“That’s his century, right? And English? Weren't the Scots and the English enemies back then?" He thought it over for a minute then said: "You’re evil. I’m in.”

When they pulled into the  Alcobars ’ driveway, the snow was beginning to fall, little flakes lazily floating downward.

“I can wait in the car,” she said.

For a moment, he dearly looked like he wanted to agree but instead smiled at her, saying, “Why’d I want that? It’s cold out here,” and, wrapping a benevolent arm around her shoulders, steered her towards the door.

No sooner had they pressed the doorbell, that door was swung open and a girl pounced on Richie. “Richie!” she said as she joyfully attempted to throttle the life out of him, “I thought that  _cabrón_ was never going to get hold of you.”

A statuesque woman appeared in the hall and levelled a cool look at her daughter. “Maria, we do not use that sort of language in this house. Especially when there are guests present.”

Maria seemed undeterred and with a mutinous expression, pointed at the doorstep she was standing on then dragged Richie inside, Tessa following afterwards.

Tessa found herself on a couch with Richie and Maria to one side and Mrs.  Alcobar in an armchair across from them. The house was not a rich one, the few pieces of furniture  were worn and probably low-end Ikea. Nonetheless, it had a warm feel about it and while they were clearly packing with an obstacle course worth of boxes covering the floor, there  were still  a number of personal  items that had yet to be stored.

There was a mosaic of drawings, photos and ribbons on one wall and Tessa spotted a  younger Richie there. He hadn’t been lying, he really had been a gawky mess of a teenager. He looked to be about thirteen and puberty had hit hard, the flame-red of his hair accentuating the brightness of his multitude of pimples. Nonetheless, the smile on his face was of a different breed to the one she was familiar with.

Young Richard’s smile was  a  small, simple thing. Not the too-wide thing he normally sported like he was daring the world to stop him.

“Wait a minute, you’re modelling?” Richie said to Maria. “I always knew you wanted to be a princess. I never figured you’d be a professional one. I’m going to have to ask Mac for punching lessons,  ‘cause I’m going to have to beat up so many boys.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Just try and stop me. Besides it’ll be for the good of your career-”

“Richie...”

“—I can be like your bodyguard or something and—"

“ Richie.”

“—and that’ll totally ruin your hair and make up and—"

Finally, Maria broke in. “You mean Anderson didn’t tell you ? ”

“He said you’re moving.  So what? I can always hop on a bus.”

“That  bast—”

“Maria,” her mother warned. “ _Mister_ Anderson likely has a full caseload and can’t keep track of every detail. I’m sure he just forgot.”

“So, what’s going on?”

“Richie...” Mrs.  Alcobar said slowly, apparently weighing every word. “The boys we’re currently fostering... Well, their grandfather is very sick. We recently managed to arrange thing with foster care so we could move closer to him.”

“We’re moving to Louisiana, Richie,” Maria said.

* * *

The visit had ended almost immediately afterward. Richie had suddenly come up with a whole slew of reasons why he had to leave. Each less plausible then the last. Maria had been confused, but not Mrs.  Alcobar . When Richie had been distracted with making his goodbyes to Maria, she had slipped Tessa a piece of paper with their new address and phone number on it.

“For when he’s ready,” she had said.

The drive home was done in silence and it wasn’t until they returned home and were hauling the boxes indoor s ,  that  Richie finally spoke up.

“They didn’t do anything wrong, you know,” he said.

“I know,” Tessa said.

“They had room for two kids and the system likes to keep siblings together... So, foster care swapped me with Isiah and Elijah. It wasn’t anything personal. Things were great... They were really great.”

_And that,_  Tessa thought,  _is why it hurts so much._

“And I’m ready to move out of the loft anytime. You or Mac just have to give the word.”

“Richie, you can stay as long as you want.”

But Richie continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’ve got a bead at a sales job and an apartment, so I’m good to go.”

It hurt that he  had  even been preparing for them to kick him out. Tessa tried a few more times to make headway, but Richie determinedly plowed on about how he’d be fine, how he appreciated everything they had done for him and how he was an adult now, so he would understand if they wanted him out.

It wasn't until they arrived at Richie’s room, that she was able to get a word in edgewise. “Would you like me to go?” she asked as Richie eyed the boxes with consternation.

“Nah, you can stay. If you want to that is.”

They sorted through the contents. Most of it seemed unremarkable enough, clothes that were now too small, a few comic books. For quite a while the only thing that sparked any sort of reaction out of Richie  was a well-worn lingerie catalogue, which  he quickly stuffed in the trash can while Tessa had a ‘coughing’ fit.  

It was Tessa who found it. An old file folder held closed by a large rubber band. The rubber was old and dry, and it seemed that no sooner  had she touched it, it snapped, and soon the floor was covered in a kaleidoscope of colourful paper.

“Richie, they’re lovely,” she said. “I didn’t know you drew.”

Richie shrugged. “Don’t normally, but  this was during that freak winter of ’84. One week there was tons of snow on the ground, no school, and since the  Alcobars hadn’t bought us snow pants, Maria and I spent most of it inside drawing and drinking hot chocolate,” he said passing her a castle drawn predominately in pink and purple. He quirked his lips. “She kept on hogging the normal pencil crayons. Didn’t want to use the ‘girly-girl’ colours.”

It was darling, Tessa thought as she ran her fingers over it. In one corner there was a red-haired knight with  a  sword doing battle with what appeared to be a fanged ball of cotton candy, and Tessa dearly hoped Richie would allow her to show it to Duncan.

Richie continued to sort through the drawings until he found a  particular one , letting out a deep breath. Tessa looked over his shoulder. The other drawings were completely haphazard compared to this. This one had been rendered with the utmost care. She could see a thousand silvery grooves in the paper where pencil marks had been made then erased in search  of the perfect lines to make up the woman depicted within.

“Emily?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

Emily Ryan. Richie’s first foster mother. The one who had named him. The one he had watched die at the tender age of four.

“If you like, we could find a photo of her.”

“No,” Richie said sharply. He instantly apologized. “Sorry. A photo would probably be better. I wasn’t a great artist and my memory was already getting  pretty hazy . It would be weird if she doesn’t look anything like what I remember.”

Carefully, she reached out and stroked his hand. It was only a light skim of her thumb over the skin on the back of his hand, but he tensed at it. He never showed any discomfort with the big gestures. A large overblown hug, a slap on the arm or an intense kiss from a female ‘friend’. All of them he’d accept with a ten-carat smile. It was the small quiet touches where he had trouble.

She waited quietly, continuing the light stroking, until he let out a breath and relaxed.  Then she said,  “My grandfather died when I was six. I don’t have any photos of him either.”

“But…”

“I never wanted them. Have you seen the figurine I keep in my studio? Two people. A big and small one joined at the hands?”

“The one that looks melted with the cracks?” It had been glued back together more than a few times.

“Yes.”

“…it’s super nice,” he added. "Artsy."

“The bigger person is leaning on his head,” she said bluntly. She’d been fourteen, her first time working with clay and, with typical teenage superiority, had been convinced that she knew better th a n her art teacher.

“Artsy," he repeated loyally.

She smiled wryly at him. “It’s a horrid piece, but when I made it, I was thinking of the dancing lessons my grandfather gave me.” His frail but firm hands guiding her movements while Josephine Baker sang of dreams in the background. “When I look at it, I remember him. Not so much what he looked like, but how he made me feel.” Warm. Treasured. Loved.

“Well, uh…. That’s super nice. And it's stupid obsessing about all this. I mean she was just my foster mother. “

“She loved you.” Tessa can’t imagine her doing anything else.

“Yeah well, if I was so loveable, she would’ve adopted me.”

No. That. Would. Not. Do. And lightning quick,  she grabbed his chin and forced him to look directly at her.

“Richard Ryan,” she said, putting every bit of firmness she had into the words, willing them to take root. “You. Are. Lovable.”

Richie froze at the words. With eyes wide and cheeks blushing, he looked considerably younger. A heartbeat later, the moment passed, and after a few blinks, Richie put on a smarmy grin.  “Now if I only the ladies would realise that.” A boy hiding within his own skin.

She let him go and  gasped in mock horror. “I am not a lady?” She had pushed more than enough.

“You don’t count.”

“I don’t?”

Later, they will talk more.

“Well, you do but, uh, you know what I mean. Right?” he said. He hunched his shoulders and turned away, hiding his rapidly reddening face.

Later, Richie will go to his bed and find pencils, paper and a picture frame in just the right size.

“Yes,” Tessa said, “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments and critiques are always welcome.


End file.
